Behind every great man is a woman.  Behind every infamous man is a woman whose advice was not heeded...
 

I warned him. I did that much, at least, for all the good it did. I told him to have nothing to do with Him, The one they named the Christ. They called Him holy, And I knew it to be true. I dreamt of Him, you see, In the darkest hours of the night. I dreamt of Him crucified At the hands of my Pontius. Soft, pampered hands wielding a hammer They could not hope to lift in life, superimposed Over the callused hands of the Carpenter Curled into claws of pain. I dreamt of His eyes, Full of an agony so much deeper than that Of wicked thorns, Or nails piercing wrists and feet, Or flesh hanging in bloody strips from His tortured, ruined back. Agony, and compassion For the man who crucified Him with a shrug, His faint-hearted acquiescence a blow Sharper than any he could have wielded With scourge, or lance, or hammer. My Pontius.  Foolish man, I do not know which frightened him more—the pain, Or the pity. But he was even more fearful of what Herod would think And, through him, Caesar. So they crucified their King, their Christ, Whom they had once revered. Fickle and faithless, they mocked and jeered, Spitting upon Him as He passed by Bearing the weight of forgiveness on His shoulders. And Pontius let them. Oh, he washed his hands of it, thinking it finished when the Nazarene cried out to God, His relieved sigh an obscene echo of the holy Man’s last breath. But I knew better. I had dreamt of Him, you see. Pontius slept well for three nights. Now he doesn’t sleep at all. For the tomb lies empty— He is not there, But they whisper that He will come again, To judge the living and the dead. Pontius tries to shut the words out, denying them as he denied mine. He jumps at shadows and Cannot abide the sight of his reflection in a mirror. What does he see therein, I wonder? A man wracked with guilt for allowing the horrible death Of One he knew to be innocent, Simply to curry the favor of one who was anything but? Or does he see a man doomed to death By the very same words he used to condemn the Christ? Take Him and judge Him… I think of what he sees, and I pity him, My poor, foolish Pontius. But not too much. After all, I did warn him.